But back to current events. Like I said, I was enjoying a Mockel, a strange and confusing punch that can rend all reason and good judgment asunder. Somewhere about three hours into our paddling, the imbedded caffeine kicked in and again I found myself in an unfortunate and desperate state. After some commotion and some rather frantic searching for habitable ground in the swamp, we docked in a somewhat muddy area, whereupon I quickly departed into the woods to deposit. About three or four steps into the swamp, I discovered that there was a structural flaw near my rectal area comprising what had been up until this time a seal adequate to contain my fury. Thus, on the fifth and most devastating step into the swamp, a hull breach was detected as it released a somewhat toxic sludge into my pantaloons. The sixth step was no better and, in fact, seemed only to challenge its paternal poop twin that I had just birthed. That's when I knew I was in trouble.
Frantic turned to desperate as I quickly searched for something to lean or squat against. Alas, no suitable perch presented itself. I was moving in so many ways that I sent excrement a'flying, but it seemed that I had escaped major damage (although the undergarments were left behind as a sordid landmark). That was about the time I felt my bare feet sliding forward in the very soft and slippery swamp mud. Recall that I had consumed a respectable quantity of Mockel, and that my balance was less than stellar.
What happened next is difficult to accurately describe, as I believe I have mentally blocked much of the event in some sort of automated protection mechanism. In short, I went down. Down into several varieties of mud. It wasn't my proudest moment returning to the party. I was foul, reeking, and a little bloody from my slow, scraping slide against the tree and into the poop. The only thing left to do was swim in the swamp. It was truly the lesser of two evils, and I was happy to rid myself of what can only be described as truly, truly, fucking disgusting.
The kicker: the next morning upon waking, a bird, in full view of my fellow swamp partiers, shat squarely on my head. No one else's head, mind you. My head. We heard it coming and just like that my hand was covered with white slime and my head with a big green bird turd. All I could utter saw a faint and depressed, "no."
Everyone else survived unscathed. It was surely fate. The poop gods. Whatever you want to call it. So you can see why I now celebrate that two full days have passed without any of my (or anyone else's) shit coming in contact with my body.
-- Mockel